"Sir," she said, very softly, "I whipped you once, if I had a whip now, your cheek should burn again."
"But I should not ask you to kiss it,—this time!" said Barnabas.
"Yes," she said, in the same soft voice, "I despise you—for a creeping spy, a fool, a coward—a maligner of women. Oh, go away,—pray go. Leave me, lest I stifle."
But now, seeing the flaming scorn of him in her eyes, in the passionate quiver of her hands, he grew afraid, cowed by her very womanhood.
"Indeed," he stammered, "you are unjust. I—I did not mean—"
"Go!" said she, cold as ice, "get back over the wall. Oh! I saw you climb over like a—thief! Go away, before I call for help—before I call the grooms and stable-boys to whip you out into the road where you belong—go, I say!" And frowning now, she stamped her foot, and pointed to the wall. Then Barnabas laughed softty, savagely, and, reaching out, caught her up in his long arms and crushed her to him.
"Call if you will, Cleone," said he, "but listen first! I said to
you that my wife should come to me immaculate—fortune's spoiled
darling though she be,—petted, wooed, pampered though she is,—and,
by God, so you shall! For I love you, Cleone, and if I live, I will
some day call you 'wife,'—in spite of all your lovers, and all the
roses that ever bloomed. Now, Cleone,—call them if you will." So
saying he set her down and freed her from his embrace. But my
lady, leaning breathless in the doorway, only looked at him
once,—frowning a little, panting a little,—a long wondering look
beneath her lashes, and, turning, was gone among the leaves. Then
Barnabas picked up the broken fan, very tenderly, and put it into
his bosom, and so sank down into the chair, his chin propped upon
his fist, frowning blackly at the glory of the afternoon.
CHAPTER XXXIX
IN WHICH THE PATIENT READER IS INTRODUCED TO AN ALMOST HUMAN DUCHESS
"Very dramatic, sir! Though, indeed, you missed an opportunity, and—gracious heaven, how he frowns!" A woman's voice, sharp, high-pitched, imperious.
Barnabas started, and glancing up, beheld an ancient lady, very small and very upright; her cheeks were suspiciously pink, her curls suspiciously dark and luxuriant, but her eyes were wonderfully young and handsome; one slender mittened hand rested upon the ivory head of a stick, and in the other she carried a small fan.
"Now, he stares!" she exclaimed, as she met his look. "Lud, how he stares! As if I were a ghost, or a goblin, instead of only an old woman with raddled cheeks and a wig. Oh, yes! I wear a wig, sir, and very hideous I look without it! But even I was young once upon a time—many, many years ago, and quite as beautiful as She, indeed, rather more so, I think,—and I should have treated you exactly as She did—only more so,—I mean Cleone. Your blonde women are either too cold or overpassionate,—I know, for my hair was as yellow as Cleone's, hundreds of years ago, and I think, more abundant. To-day, being only a dyed brunette, I am neither too cold nor over-passionate, and I tell you, sir, you deserved it, every word."
Here Barnabas rose, and, finding nothing to say, bowed.
"But," continued the ancient lady, sweeping him with a quick, approving gaze, "I like your face, and y-e-s, you have a very good leg. You also possess a tongue, perhaps, and can speak?"
"Given the occasion, madam," said Barnabas, smiling.
"Ha, sir! do I talk so much then? Well, perhaps I do, for when a woman ceases to talk she's dead, and I'm very much alive indeed. So you may give me your arm, sir, and listen to me, and drop an occasional remark while I take breath,—your arm, sir!" And here the small, ancient lady held out a small, imperious hand, while her handsome young eyes smiled up into his.
"Madam, you honor me!"
"But I am only an old woman,—with a wig!"
"Age is always honorable, madam."
"Now that is very prettily said, indeed you improve, sir. Do you know who I am?"
"No, madam; but I can guess."
"Ah, well,—you shall talk to me. Now, sir,—begin. Talk to me of
Cleone."
"Madam—I had rather not."
"Eh, sir,—you won't?"
"No, madam."
"Why, then, I will!" Here the ancient lady glanced up at Barnabas with a malicious little smile. "Let me see, now—what were her words? 'Spy,' I think. Ah, yes—'a creeping spy,' 'a fool' and 'a coward.' Really, I don't think I could have bettered that—even in my best days,—especially the 'creeping spy.'"
"Madam," said Barnabas in frowning surprise, "you were listening?"
"At the back of the arbor," she nodded, "with my ear to the panelling,
—I am sometimes a little deaf, you see."
"You mean that you were—actually prying—?"
"And I enjoyed it all very much, especially your 'immaculate' speech, which was very heroic, but perfectly ridiculous, of course. Indeed, you are a dreadfully young, young sir, I fear. In future, I warn you not to tell a woman, too often, how much you respect her, or she'll begin to think you don't love her at all. To be over-respectful doesn't sit well on a lover, and 'tis most unfair and very trying to the lady, poor soul!"
"To hearken to a private conversation doesn't sit well on a lady, madam, or an honorable woman."
"No, indeed, young sir. But then, you see, I'm neither. I'm only a Duchess, and a very old one at that, and I think I told you I wore a wig? But 'all the world loves a lover,' and so do I. As soon as ever I saw you I knew you for a lover of the 'everything-or-nothing' type. Oh, yes, all lovers are of different types, sir, and I think I know 'em all. You see, when I was young and beautiful—ages ago—lovers were a hobby of mine,—I studied them, sir. And, of 'em all, I preferred the 'everything-or-nothing, fire-and-ice, kiss-me-or-kill-me' type. That was why I followed you, that was why I watched and listened, and, I grieve to say, I didn't find you as deliciously brutal as I had hoped."
"Brutal, madam? Indeed, I—"
"Of course! When you snatched her up in your arms,—and I'll admit you did it very well,—when you had her there, you should have covered her with burning kisses, and with an oath after each. Girls like Cleone need a little brutality and—Ah! there's the Countess! And smiling at me quite lovingly, I declare! Now I wonder what rod she has in pickle for me? Dear me, sir, how dusty your coat is! And spurred boots and buckskins are scarcely the mode for a garden fête. Still, they're distinctive, and show off your leg to advantage, better than those abominable Cossack things,—and I doat upon a good leg—" But here she broke off and turned to greet the Countess,—a large, imposing, bony lady in a turban, with the eye and the beak of a hawk.
"My dearest Letitia!"
"My dear Duchess,—my darling Fanny, you 're younger than ever, positively you are,—I'd never have believed it!" cried the Countess, more hawk-like than ever. "I heard you were failing fast, but now I look at you, dearest Fanny, I vow you don't look a day older than seventy."
"And I'm seventy-one, alas!" sighed the Duchess, her eyes young with mischief. "And you, my sweetest creature,—how well you look! Who would ever imagine that we were at school together, Letitia!"
"But indeed I was—quite an infant, Fanny."
